


Pretty moon-eyed Poet traipses after white-haired Hunk

by maureeeen



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Fix It, Gen, M/M, Smart Jaskier, snarky Jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:40:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23304769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maureeeen/pseuds/maureeeen
Summary: Geralt felt his throat close up, looking at the bard."Please let me come," he'd managed to choke out, just barely, before his eyes had started to well up, his chubby hands finding the strap of the bag hanging from his shoulder. "I don't know what to do with myself. I think another night on my own might kill me, " he’d whispered wide eyed, almost as if in awe, almost as if he were realizing it himself just now.Awe, Geralt knew, was very close to terror.*Why, exactly, does Jaskier follow Geralt around after meeting him at that tavern, when Geralt treats him so poorly? Is it masochism? Is it a crush? Is it daddy issues? A thirst for adventure?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

Geralt felt his throat close up, looking at the bard.  
  
_Please let me come_ , he'd managed to choke out, just barely, before his eyes had started to well up, his chubby hands finding the strap of the bag hanging from his shoulder. _I don't know what to do with myself. I think another night on my own might kill me._ He’d whispered, wide eyed, almost as if in awe, almost as if he were realizing it himself just now. 

Awe, Geralt knew, was very close to terror. 

He studied his face, his swimming eyes, his quivering lip, and didn't trust himself to speak. 

The bard had been trudging along for weeks, trying to endear himself to him with his singing and his jokes and his compliments. It had been painful to witness, shameful, this begging on every frequency to be accepted. It drove old, hardened pain back into Geralt’s guts, and it’d been driving him insane with anger. 

The entire time he’d been sure that Jaskier was just another gawker, what was he, 18? What other than a big load of shit could he possibly have in his head, age 18. Trying to exploit this hard life of his for his mediocre ballads… And the judgment, he thought, the judgment, that morbid curiosity surely hidden behind those wide, innocent eyes, for what could he be to him other than some novel thing to write about, like all the previously unseen monsters he was aah-ing and ooh-ing at. That bloodthirst, he'd thought to himself when he'd been unable to sleep, that feverish greed, it was vile. 

He'd thought him to be entitled, as well. Horribly arrogant to be following him still after Geralt had told him to leave so many times. Not taking him seriously. So certain he’d crack.   
The bard might get what he wanted out of everybody else, with those big blue eyes of his, but Geralt knew better than to let some child fool him into trusting him, only to be, he was sure, robbed blind of his dignity and all his better stories. 

Yes, he did endure quite a lot of traveling in those fancy heeled shoes of his and his thin blouses and his stiff jackets, quite a lot of weather, and many cold nights, too.  
And he didn't complain after he'd tried and failed to get up on Roach that one time, even though Geralt could hear him curse softly under his breath when they'd been walking a particularly long time, and he hadn't tried again after Geralt had told him to fuck off when he'd tried to get into his tent with him, even though Geralt heard his teeth clatter every night before he dozed off.

Props to him, for all that. 

But he was sure he'd _leave_ , when he'd had enough, yes, with a bit more of the witcher’s respect, but it couldn’t take much longer now, he'd thought. A week ago.

He wasn't getting enough. And he was limping now. And there was a strange curve to his posture, from every muscle, undoubtedly, aching under his skin. And he'd asked, then, shouting, as he’d heard him curse again under his breath, some few meters behind Roach: _Why the fuck won't you leave?_

He hadn't thought him to be desperate. It hadn't occurred to him. With his pretty face, his fancy clothes, his wit, his education and his charm. What did he have to be desperate about? There was rarely a human they came across that didn't immediately fall for him. They tried to bed him far and wide while Geralt had to put up with paid whores. Jaskier, he was sure, wouldn’t even have to work if he didn’t want to, wouldn’t have to rely on those ballads of his that earned him nothing but stale bread aimed at his head. Right as he was, he could fall into someone else’s well-feathered nest. One rich woman he would have to endear himself to. Sure, maybe she’d be old, a widow, wrinkled and smelling of gone-off milk, but was that a reason to walk himself raw, and to stand here and blubber? Would probably even have a pretty daughter. Or a son, Geralt thought, if the way the bard tended to wave his hands around was anything to go by. 

But the boy wasn’t acting. Not lying, either, or making himself cry. He smelled genuinely bitter, the way that stomach acid did, the smell, the witcher knew, of fear and sadness. A desperation cried so deeply into the royal pillows he’d escaped, Geralt wanted to hold his breath. Obscene it was, really. 

He'd stopped crying now. Geralt still hadn't responded. 

Jaskier looked away and cleared his throat and wiped at his nose with his forefinger, the way he did when he was uncomfortable. "Right." And he looked around at the endless fields, and when he thought he'd twisted out of view, he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Can I come with to the next village, at least?" He pulled up the snot in his nose. "Don't exactly know where we are."   
  
He turned back around, Geralt thought, when he could trust himself not to start crying again, but he didn't look at him.  
  
“I’ll - I can fall further behind. I don’t know what I did to make you shout at me this time, but I’ll not do it, if you just tell me. And I’ll be out of your hair.”  
  
Geralt cleared his throat.  
  
He hoisted himself up by the pummel of his saddle and swung one leg swiftly over Roaches back, earning him a shocked intake of breath, and a flinching stumble back on Jaskier’s behalf as he landed.   
  
He’d kicked up quite a lot of dust.  
  
Jaskier was up to his hips in sage.   
  
“Why?”  
  
“Why what?”  
  
“Why might another night on your own kill you?” Geralt repeated, no venom in his voice. Not on purpose, anyway. He was curious. He was relieved, almost, to think he might be able to let go of all that anger, even if it felt like a thin kind of hope.  
  
Jaskier grimaced, pressing his lips tightly together, fleeting and clearly involuntary. “It’s really not important.”  
  
“Yes it is,” Geralt said, coming closer.   
  
Jaskier blew air out of his nose. His eyes moved around like he was searching his whole brain for an answer. Coming up short, and rather quickly, too. His face was going red. Geralt narrowed his eyes at him.  
  
“You don’t _have_ an answer,” he said, and thought _for once_ but didn’t want to be cruel.  
  
“I’ve heard of this,” he said, willing his voice to sound more smooth. “Painters, poets, artists, unable to be alone. But why trudge after me? Many people we’ve met actually want you around.”  
  
Jaskier held his gaze, trembling, but he did.  
  
Defiant, the witcher thought. Interesting.   
  
"Have you got family to take you in?"  
  
His mouth, tight, was downturned. Another attempt at bravery. "I'm an adult."  
  
Geralt nodded.   
  
They looked at each other for a moment.   
  
“Give me your bag.”  
  
“What?”   
  
Jaskier’s hands had fluttered to the leather before he’d even replied.   
  
“Give me your bag.”  
  
“No,” his face stayed like that, pressed tightly closed, the whole of it.   
  
“I’ll tie it to my pack.”  
  
Jaskier shook his head.   
  
Geralt made a grab for it, and the bard flew back, almost as quick as a hare. He nearly fell, but caught himself, and even as he struggled for balance he didn’t let go of his bag. His chest rose and fell quickly.   
  
Geralt didn’t move another inch.   
  
“I get I annoy you. I apologize. I’ll get out of your hair,” he said, for once, concise. “But I need my lute if I’m going to find my way out of here and survive. And if I don’t, I’d like to have it,” he said. “To keep me company. _While I starve_.” He nearly spat the last bit at him.   
  
“I’m not trying to _steal from you_ ,” Geralt said, after he’d recovered. “You’ve been carrying that too long. Your spine’s crooked. Come on.”   
  
The bard didn’t move.  
  
“What would I do with a _lute_?”  
  
“Smash it?” Jaskier suggested, his voice spiking.   
  
“Chase me with it, and bring it down over my head?”  
  
“Why would I-”  
  
Geralt startled at the bard’s interrupting.   
  
“If you could see the fury in your eyes. The hatred.”   
  
“I’m not mad-”  
  
“No,” the bard said, still trembling. “Not now you’re not. If I would have known crying would be what it takes…” There was a hint of a smile flitting over his face, bitter, almost disgusted, and nonetheless Geralt couldn’t help but mirror it, desperate for the tension to let up.   
  
Something eased, then, in the bard’s eyes, but not for long. “But one wrong word…”  
  
“...You can’t cry on command?” Geralt tried, and there it was again, the smile, following a startled silence. He felt himself soften.   
  
“Come on.”  
  
Jaskier was the one to stare at him, then.   
  
“I’ll carry it.”  
  
“Oh, for-” Geralt cut himself short. There was almost something triumphant then, in the bard’s next smile. It made Geralt laugh.  
  
“I’ll let you ride,” he said. “You keep whimpering, sucking air through your teeth every time you misstep, I can’t stand it anymore,” he’d thought of these words beforehand, earlier, but they sounded off to him now.   
  
Jaskier _laughed_ at him. Not with him. _At_ him.   
  
Geralt felt a shadow, dark and heavy, lift from his eyes.  
  
“Guilt, is it?” He asked, and straightened himself up, flicking that stupid curl out of his eyes. “Can’t be sympathy.”  
  
“Can’t it?”  
  
“No. If you were capable of that, it would have shown itself much sooner,” he wasn’t joking, Geralt could tell, but he was smiling, with genuine glee. He was having _fun_.  
  
“Guilt it is, then,” Geralt said, and stretched out a hand.   
  
He still didn’t trust him, the bard, but he came closer anyway, on his shaking legs, for lack of something else to do.   
  
Geralt held Roach by the rains as the bard mounted, his bag clearly in the way, lute banging against the saddle, making Roach side step. Geralt patted at her cheek. He’d slung the reins over her head and stepped back until Jaskier was out of his reach. _I feel like you’re gonna slash my calves, or something_ , he’d said, under his breath. _Or my Achilles’._ His voice had sounded pressed as he’d pulled himself up. “Or my arse.”  
  
Geralt had stood, rolling his eyes.   
  
“Are you sure you can ride like that?” He was pointing to the bag, and Jaskier nodded, once.   
  
Of course he couldn’t.   
  
“If you fall…” he started, but shook his head.   
  
He brought the reins back over Roaches head and placed them before the saddle, and before he let go, he gave Jaskier one hard look.   
  
The bard’s mouth twitched.   
  
They both knew what he was thinking.   
  
“Don’t you dare.”  
  
Jaskier laughed, softly like the breeze, through his nose.   
  
“Pretty sure she won’t betray you,” he said, patting at Roaches shoulder. “Will you?” There was a gentleness in his tone as he spoke to the horse.   
  
Geralt let go, he knew the bard was right, Roach wouldn't ever, and stood next to her.  
  
“May I?”   
  
He patted at Jaskier’s shin, asking for the stirrup iron, and Jaskier flinched and hurried out of it, and got his foot caught in it, and Geralt sighed and rolled his eyes and held it still for him. The sharp edge of the bard’s shoe scuffed up the skin on his finger, but he held still, not wanting to frighten him.   
  
It was somewhat undignified, but he did mount.   
  
“Alright,” he said, close to the boy’s ear, and reached for the reins. “Hold onto your lute, then. Can’t catch the both of you, if you fall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to imagine what an 18 year old Dandelion would be like if he were to be pushed around by Geralt, the great dickhead of Blaviken, which seems to be an alter ego belonging to the witcher that Netflix invented, and that only comes out when Jaskier's around. I don't like how much of a doormat Jaskier is to Geralt in the series, or the way Geralt treats Jaskier (OR the way the writers are treating their friendship). And I'm trying to explore why either of them might act the way they do and how one might navigate it, so I can sleep better waiting for season 2.


	2. Chapter 2

It was tense, their ride. Horribly so. 

It wasn’t not to be expected, of course it would be tense. But having absolutely nothing to say to a man Geralt was sharing the back of his horse with was a very new sensation that he didn’t know what to do with. So he handled it as he did every other unfamiliar thing causing him discomfort - stoically silent, pretending he wasn’t there. 

Jaskier seemed, judging by the crown of his head, which was all Geralt could see without shifting back, lost in thought. 

He’d planned loosely to take them both into the woods - he knew the woods on the horizon hid lakes upon lakes upon ponds and eccentric stone structures and odd critters somewhere between fish and rodent and he was sure the poet would find beauty in the strangeness of it. If he was from Redania like he’d said, it would be strange to him, anyway. 

The land there was said to have been caved in thousands of years ago, by a fire a sorcerer had ignited after some bandit had stolen his eldest son. As the story goes, he stood in the middle of that field and cast a spell as wide as he could in all directions, burning everything to the ground, including his son and himself, trying to spare them both the inevitable grief. He’d been so angry, it was said, it had melted the earth nearly half a kilometer below level where he’d stood, creating, as he sank into the ground and died, ablaze, a descend you could ride smoothly into and out of without really noticing. 

Geralt had some doubt regarding the validity of this story, but the air there was cooler, and it was slightly darker than up here and if he was to be honest, he craved someplace to hide his face. 

He was, really, horribly ashamed of how he’d yelled at the boy, and how he’d been treating him, and he could sense the way he carried himself trying to make up for it, the straightness of his back, the faux jaunty looseness of his shoulders, the crease in his brows. It reminded him of the men that had raised him, and he hated himself for it, and he tried to shake it off, but he got lost in thought, and then, before he knew it, it was back again. A thin sort of gallantry. 

He really was rather sick of himself. 

He cleared his throat. “There are woods there,” he said, noting his own voice to sound somewhat defeated. Quiet. “Back there, you can - we could set up camp there. It’ll still take a while to reach the town and, it’d be - more comfortable, than to ride through the night. We could eat. Sleep.”

“A - are you asking me?”

“Uhm. Yes, I suppose so.”

“Oh. Yeah, I mean, that sounds good.”

Geralt nodded. “We _could_ ride through the night. Find a tavern. I could leave you there, like you said.”

Jaskier sighed. “Do you want me to leave?”

“I - do what you want.”

Jaskier shook his head, the slightest movement. “How big’s the nearest town?”

Geralt thought about it. “Not very. Rather small, I think. Smaller than Posada.”

“That won’t do me any good.”

“No.”

Jaskier nodded. “Fine. I’ll come with, then, till we find something bigger.”

Geralt returned to silence. It was so much easier to be fed up with himself when he was alone. Wasn’t so present, then. Possible to ignore. For some time, at least. 

“Are you going to be nice?”

Geralt stilled. He exhaled a steady, long breath through his nose, so shallow there was hope the poet wouldn’t notice. “I’ll try.”

“Good.”

In Niskmorze, the woods, it was raining. 

That in itself wasn’t a rare occurrence, the vegetation seemed to trap all the water in the air in a way that made it drizzle a few times a day. Usually it stayed dry in the night, because it was cooler, then - but it didn’t usually rain like this. It didn’t pour. 

They stood - well, sat, on Roach, a few meters before the entrance to the woods, and stared at it. 

“Hm.”

“Is that - not normal?”

“No.”

“D’you think something’s wrong?”

“…Yes.”

“Do you - think it’s bad?”

“I don’t know.” 

Geralt reached around the bard so he could hoist himself up by the saddle, and dismounted swiftly. Jaskier stared at him, clearly unsure of what to do. Geralt shook his head softly. “Stay there.”

“Okay.”

He was still holding onto his lute bag with both hands. His fingers, Geralt noticed, were buried in the leather. He wanted to ask him if he was alright, and squinted at him as if he were about to, but decided that it wasn’t really any of his business. 

“Pick up the reins?”

“Oh.”

He did, scrambling somewhat. 

Geralt wondered distantly how much sleep, exactly, he’d missed out on. 

  
It turned out that Roach did not want to be alone with the bard, because Jaskier couldn’t get her to stop following Geralt. He looked strained and apologetic, the reins pulled taut, just on the edge of panic, but Geralt waved him off, continuing to trail the edge of the descend, his left shoulder getting damp. 

“Just as well.”

It was really only raining in the woods, nowhere else. The clouds hung in between the tree tops, soft, off-white, not pure gray, but something approaching lavender. To his eyes, at least, he wasn’t sure what Jaskier was seeing, it might have seemed pure gray to him. Either way, they weren’t dark and heavy as you’d imagine with a rain like this. 

“It’s magic,” he said. 

“D’you think it’s a curse?”

“…No,” Geralt said. It didn’t smell like a curse. It didn’t smell like fire and metal and something breaking in the air, he didn’t smell the trauma of it. It just smelled like rain, soft and gentle. Almost milky, there was a pillowiness to it. 

“Maybe there’s been a drought,” he said, and didn’t believe it himself. “Hm.”

There were druids and elves living in these woods, very capable of taking care of them. He was sure if it was raining like this and it wasn’t a curse, there was a reason. Maybe another fire. 

His amulet thrummed softly against his chest. Pleasant, like a cat, purring before a fire.

“What - how does it feel, to you?” He asked the bard, turning so he could look at him over his shoulder. 

“Uh.” Jaskier seemed confused. “Seriously?”

Geralt nodded. 

Jaskier faced the woods and looked at them, seemed to study the clouds, the leafs vibrating with heavy rain drops pattering down on them in quick succession. “Dreamy,” he said. 

“Smells like -” he interrupted himself and shook his head. 

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s nice. Sort of soothing.”

Geralt nodded. 

“Hm.”

“Do you think it’s a trap?”

“Yes,” Geralt decided.

He stopped walking, then. He was tempted to sit down. Let his legs dangle into the descend and his face get wet. His lids felt heavy.

“I was going to catch us some fish.”

“But - I’m assuming we’re not going in there?”

“We really shouldn’t.”

“Are we-”

“Make her walk backwards,” Geralt said, and started walking backwards himself, careful to keep the same length to his steps. 

He heard Jaskier try, clicking his tongue at Roach, tutting at her, and just waited for his back to collide with her snout, making her headcollar jingle - but it didn’t. So he bit his tongue and didn’t tell him to stop talking to her as if she was an idiot. 

“Tell me when we reached the point where we stopped at earlier.”

He heard Jaskier strain as he agreed.

  
“Okay,” Geralt said when he was back in the saddle, reaching past the bard so he could take the reins from him and make Roach walk even further backwards, all the way into the fields they’d left. 

“Is it dangerous?” His voice was barely a whisper. 

“I don’t know,” said Geralt. “Depends on what it wants. It would be best, though, if it doesn’t notice us. But I doubt it hasn’t already. We all got wet.” He could smell the scent of sugared peppermint and soap wafting off of Jaskier’s doublet and he knew the scent of wet horse coat anywhere. 

“Can it feel that?”

“Hm.”

“Like a spider?”

Geralt found himself somewhat impressed. “Mh. Sort of,” he said, and hooked an arm around Jaskier’s middle before he got Roach to turn a sharp left and gallop as far back into the fields as was reasonable and didn’t ruin the progress they’d made from Pastwiskozielony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (keke palmer voice) Sorry to the Polish language. I'll try to keep the waiting between this and the next chapter shorter than last time. I have an actual plan for the plot now, but I have a bunch of other stuff going on, so I can't make promises.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to include a warning for animal death for the following chapter. No graphic descriptions of it but it's mentioned.

Geralt caught the two of them a rabbit each after he’d told Jaskier to set up camp. 

He’d been leaving the bard to catch his own food, which hadn’t been working well at all but he wasn’t under any circumstances going to be whittled into the boys’ personal huntsman and if he couldn’t hunt and still insisted on being a vagabond, he’d have to eat bread. 

Geralt had watched him.   
He hesitated, hunting.   
It seemed Jaskier wanted all the creatures he pretended to set his eye on for, it seemed, appearances’ sake, to flee before he would actually have to kill them. A sign of his privilege as glaring as his sky blue doublet. Hunger, Geralt had been sure, would teach him to either go after his prey or to leave and settle in the nearest town. 

So Jaskier had been eating bread and berries and the occasional sickly frog or mouse that hadn’t been able to run from him, looking miserably disgusted about it and only doing so after a stretch of a few days of not having any meat and only if there wasn’t a tavern somewhere on the horizon. Which could be, maybe, by some, called progress.

One time Geralt had told him that a mole he’d caught wasn’t alright to eat. It’d smelled dreadful to him and he wondered how that’d managed to go over the boy’s head, but of course he only got wind of it when the deed had already been done. Jaskier had looked at him with such betrayal and devastation, Geralt was sure neither of them would ever forget it. He’d told him, as was true, that it was for the better, that any animal he managed to catch ought to be mercy killed anyway, and then, seeing the look of startled disbelief on his face, that that mole had to have already been in great pain, the way it smelled. Which had been true as well.

Nontheless, that’d been the day Jaskier had started keeping distance between Roach and himself as they walked and Geralt had been sure he’d stop following them come the next town, but no. 

  
Geralt killed the rabbits far enough away from the camp side for Jaskier not to hear any of it.   
He also took off their heads and feet so that the poet wouldn’t be tempted to look at their eyes or their soft ears and paws the way he had done with those mice. 

He wasn’t ecstatic about this development, but justified it to himself with the very long way still ahead of them, and the emotional turmoil the boy had already gone through today. Geralt was sure he wasn’t going to also manage to kill anything tonight, and he wasn’t going to watch him unravel further as he starved himself. 

Aside from all that, he had told him to set up camp, which could be, by some, called labor divison. 

There was a relief to the decision. 

It was impossible to meet Jaskier’s eyes when he returned to camp, though. 

  
As was to be expected, he ate a lot. Of course Geralt thought it was silly that he could barely make himself eat animals he’d caught himself but dug in like this when someone else had killed them for him, but he didn’t say anything about his royal fingers being spoiled by the lute and feather and instead told him to go lay down, when he was done eating, red in the cheeks and heavy eyed. 

“Yes, in the tent. Do what you want.” 

“You must feel terrible,” Jaskier yawned. As he passed him, his hand hovered over Geralt’s shoulder, but he seemed to think better of it. 

“Don’t push it.”

“Oh, shush.”

“Do you - do you always cave like this, the second you find out someone’s - you know, a bit pathetic?” 

Geralt was silent.

“Or am I special?”

“Jaskier.”

“It’s a valid question, I think.”

“I’m not -” Geralt exhaled. “I’m not usually that - cruel in the first place.”

“Oh, so what, this is just you being normal now?”

“This is me feeling bad,” he said, with his teeth gritted. “And I don’t think you’re going to last much longer, if you -” he shook his head. “If you don’t eat, or rest, and I’m not trying to - go to bed.”

Jaskier seemed to hesitate for a moment. 

“What is it about me that makes you so mad?” He’d sounded jovial, but now his voice was quiet and careful. Geralt wanted to look at him, to study his expression, but he didn’t think he could take the eye contact. 

“You’re a spoiled brat,” he said. 

“Have I stopped being a spoiled brat since this morning?”

“I didn’t realize you were lost.”

“What did you think I was?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” he said, coaxing, his voice light. “Come on.”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes, what? Can’t I know, at least, so I won’t have to be worried you’re going to start being nasty to me again when the fancy strikes next and have to - regret that I ever - _played along_?”

Geralt exhaled a hard breath through his nose and closed his eyes. He wasn’t even wrong, was the worst part. 

“You were already _going_ to leave me to starve, what exactly have you got to threaten me with -”

“ _Alright_ ,” Geralt said. “I thought you were bored, and entitled. You were - gawking at me like -” he shook his head. “Just that you’re too pampered to know to be afraid, and I’m not - I won’t help you exploit - this, for the sake of adding novelty to your shitty music and - make _witchers_ ,” he said, with some bitterness “even more of a - a _mythos_.” 

“Mh.”

He did glance up at him, then, carefully, out of the corner of his eyes. Jaskier looked thoughtful. 

“Yeah, I suppose that makes sense.”

Geralt nodded, feeling, although he was mortally embarrassed, relieved. It did make sense, he thought. If you put it like that. He was sure Jaskier was satisfied then and that he was going to go lay down, but he stayed standing there and started talking again. 

“Just - can’t I be sad and lonely and restless and still sort of cruelly and sensationalistically exploit your - I mean, _horrorshow_ -” there was a warm, soft smile in his voice. “Of a life for material?”

Geralt gave him a look. He didn’t know what to say to that. His mind supplied him with the memory of Jaskier crying on the road and he realized he hadn’t caved because he’d felt sympathy, not purely because of that, anyway, he’d felt sympathy before. Every time he’d heard him wince in pain for a start, and of course the crying had, to a degree, startled him outside of himself, confronted him with what he’d been doing and made him feel horribly ashamed and that _was_ a large part of his change of heart but hadn’t he seen that every morning when Jaskier had been disoriented and half starved and been able to look away?   
Sure, on the basis that he was certain he’d leave before he’d cause himself any actual harm, but really, Geralt had caved because Jaskier had cracked. He’d won. And a deep, buried part of him felt that was some sort of a shield or maybe an alibi - Geralt shook his head. 

He felt very tired suddenly. 

Jaskier sighed. “Alright.” Then he did pat at his shoulder, just lightly, with his fingertips. 

“You do know that I had acting lessons, like everybody -”

“That wasn’t acting.”

“No,” Jaskier said, nodding.

  
When he finally closed the flaps of the tent and started rustling inside, Geralt heaved a deep sigh and nestled back against Roaches belly. He thought he should really allow himself some of the elderflower liquor he’d been dragging around for months, but he couldn’t make himself care enough for it to get up. 

Instead, he crossed one of his ankles over the other, his naked feet warmed by the last little remainders of fire smoldering away as the air finally cooled around him. It’d been a hot, sticky day, so that, at least, came as a relief. 

Turning his head, he could see the clouds over the forest, still a light grayish violet, not darkened whatsoever by the night but not giving off much light either.   
They simply hung there, silently pouring down. 

Geralt’s last thought before dozing off was that if it was going to keep raining like that, the crater might fill up. He wondered if the animals living in the forest had already started to make their way out and thought that, safe of course for whatever could breathe underwater and birds, Niskmorze might well already be deserted. He realized he couldn’t remember hearing birdsong earlier and wondered if he hadn’t paid attention or if they had, indeed, left - all the worms and beetles might have already drowned. 

Geralt had planned to keep watch, but with the bard finally out of the way, a strange stillness hung in the air that lulled him into a sleep so deep and heavy that he found himself half ignoring the rustling he heard, half incorporating it into a dream he was having about a bird picking at a fish, still swimming underwater. When he eventually remembered where he was and snapped out of it, he stumbled to his feet. The tent was open and the familiar warm scent of down and mint far less intense than he’d grown accustomed to and instead spread around the camp side by a wind coming from the east - 

He spotted Jaskier walking across the field in his big white undershirt and the short linen pants he wore underneath, his hands extended slightly to the sides of his torso. It looked like something out of an old wive’s tale. 

“Jaskier!” 

No response.

Luckily he was very slow on his feet, and Geralt caught up with him swiftly, Niskmorze and its odd rain still a safe distance away. 

“Jaskier.”

Again, he either ignored or didn’t hear him. His shirt kept getting caught on the bushels of sage around his thighs. He only stopped walking after Geralt had pushed himself into his path and gripped him by the shoulders. 

His eyes were covered in a milky film reminiscent of the third lid on a lizard, tinged a soft violet. Geralt’s immediate attention went to his heartrate - it was fine, if slow. Then his scent, which was smoother than usual. 

“Are you coming with?” Jaskier asked, faint.

“No, I’m not coming with,” Geralt said after a moment he needed to gather himself.

“Oh, well that’s a shame.” 

Geralt grabbed him by the chin and tilted his face up so he could better look at his eyes. Jaskier let him, his hands only rising slightly for balance. 

“I always feel better when you’re around,” he mumbled around his squeezed-in cheeks and Geralt stilled as a strange weakness took his limbs. He wanted to ask why, in God’s name, that was, but there really were more pressing questions at hand and either way, whatever he was saying was probably influenced by the spell that hung over the woods. 

His grip shifted around the boy’s face.

“You’re not going either,” he said. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Jaskier said. “You’re being quite gentle, actually -”

“Your eyes, Jaskier.”

“Oh - no, they don’t hurt.”

There were ridges in the cloudiness over his eyes like small rivulets, that were more translucent than the rest of whatever this was. Geralt had only ever seen clouded lids on people cursed to be half reptiles, and corpses sorcerers had made marionettes out of. 

“Why would my eyes hurt?”

“Can you see well?”

“I, uh -” Jaskier blinked at him, scanning his face. He squinted a little. “Yes, I think I can. Why would my eyes hurt, Geralt?”

“Just look a little irritated, is all,” Geralt said, and brought his other hand up over his fohrehead, trying to see if his pupils were dilating as they should, since his vision was clearly impaired. “Look like they might sting.”

“Huh.”

Just as he’d suspected, Jaskier’s pupils barely reacted to the shift in light - to be fair there wasn’t a far way to go from the near darkness of the night sky bearing stars and the moon above, to complete darkness but they should still widen at least a little bit. 

Geralt let go of his face. Jaskier looked him up and down and then made to start walking in the direction of the woods again.

“No,” Geralt said, still holding him by the shoulder with one hand. 

“Wh -” 

“What’s in the woods, Jaskier?”

“Rest,” he said after a moment of hesitation, not meeting his eyes.

Geralt frowned at him. 

“I think - I think I can put myself down, there. You know?”

Geralt swallowed. “Yes. It’s a vicious trap.”

“Think I might have been wrong.”

“You weren’t.”

Jaskier tried to walk around him, but Geralt blocked his path, an apologetic look on his face. “I really can’t let you go in there.”

“I -”

“Is there going to be a person there? Is someone waiting for you? Have you had a dream -”

Jaskier looked like he was chewing his words over, almost guilty. “There’s - no, but I - need to lay in the ground.” 

“ _In_ the ground?”

“I - it’ll be - heavy, and - I feel so light,” he twisted his shoulders behind his back and Geralt wondered if that was a part of the spell. He let go of his shoulder. “I can’t sleep.”

“All the ground is is cold and wet. It won’t be comforting.”

“I know it will.”

Geralt huffed. He bent down and took a fistful of dirt out of the ground and put it into Jaskier’s palm. “Does that feel good to you?”

They both stared at it, black, trickling to the ground. Some floating off to the side in the breeze. 

“It’ll be different.”

“No it won’t. Come on.”

He tried to turn him around by his shoulder, wiping his hand on his own thigh as he did, and Jaskier’s torso went but his feet were planted firmly into the ground. “Jaskier.”

“I don’t want to -”

“Alright.”

Geralt went to throw him over his shoulder and as his arms went around his middle, Jaskier’s body tipped off center but somehow his feet kept him where he stood as if they were made of stone. His arms fell onto Geralt’s back like a ragdoll’s, fingers twisting weakly into the fabric of his shirt as he braced himself to be lifted but there wasn’t any way to pick him up, not on Geralt’s second or third attempt either. He didn’t need his amulet to rattle against his chest the way that it did, in fact it was rather distracting, so he, detangling himself from the bard, took it off over his head and shoved it into his pocket. 

He huffed. This was one of the nastier spacial spells he’d encountered. He’d seen enchanted forests that drew people far and wide into their mouths, getting them lost and enslaved by fairies or eaten by witches or vampires, but he hadn’t seen them make people desperate to seek rest by burying themselves in them. There was something mechanical to these clouds and their rain and their strange draw that made Geralt uncomfortable in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It was creepy. It didn’t feel of this world. He found it somewhat reminiscent of fairy magic but they didn’t do things of this scale, and anyway it almost felt like an attraction at a fair and thus more like something a sorcerer might have done. But just - why the rain? The irony in reference to the fire wasn’t lost on him, but he just didn’t see the point of it.

He watched Jaskier try to get his bearings, a hand on his arm for balance, and thought that if he wouldn’t turn around there wasn’t much of an option other than to spend the night where they stood and hope the morning, either by its own virtue or via a night of rest helping to restore some of his natural resilience against the magic, would bring release.

“You’re going to have to sleep here.”

“What?” 

“You’re not going back, and we’re not going into the woods, so you’re going to sleep here.”

“I can’t sleep here. I’m -” he looked around himself, over the fields, at the sky, past Geralt’s shoulder at the clouds and fell silent, and finally agreed. 

  
So they sat, bending the sage around them. The scent was overwhelming. Geralt wanted to ask if it was bothering him too, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it other than to get closer to the forest, where the fields turned into grass, so he thought it best not to call attention to it and started breathing through his mouth, where he could taste it, which wasn’t much better.

As Jaskier carefully bent the stalks back and lay down, Geralt thought they might make a decent bed but he could see how uncomfortable Jaskier was the minute he lay down. The bard glanced at him, briefly, and silently turned over onto his side, bringing a hand up underneath his head. 

Geralt saw his eyes flit back and forth behind his lids and knew how difficult it was for him to keep them closed. He was restless. 

Surely the second Jaskier would fall asleep, should that moment come at all, his eyes would snap open and he’d start walking again. Geralt thought maybe it would be possible to knock him off his balance when he was trying to climb to his feet or, if he could manage to catch him at the right second, to grab a hold of him when he’d just so lost consciousness. Jaskier shifted, interrupting Geralt’s thoughts. He turned his back to him and draped one of his arms over his head, so that his hand hung limply in the air. 

And then he did fall asleep. Geralt heard his heart slow and saw his muscles relax. But he didn’t stir. He didn’t get back up. He just lay there. And this time, Geralt did keep watch. 


End file.
